


Escaping The Helm

by Canadihipster (Atomograd)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atomograd/pseuds/Canadihipster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality is a heavy weight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping The Helm

Sometimes, things happened. For better or worse, things had the tendency to happen. Which must be baffling, in retrospect. The very fact that the universe was somehow fabricated, in and of itself, by itself or otherwise, to allow anything at all to happen is daunting. Perhaps, the breeze flicks one’s hair playfully into their face simply because the universe allows it, and the water supplies a weighty pressure only if the universe so says. Then again. Just because the theoretical law of gravity works one-hundred out of one-hundred times does not mean it will work once more the hundred-and-first time.

Gravity. Now, that was something he could use. He could use the comforting feel of rock beneath his feet, of a mass so much larger than him, grounding him effortlessly. Coiling, writhing wires akin to poison barbed tentacles were certainly not gravity. The hum of electronics and hardware and biowear and engines were not as gratifying as the sound of wind rushing through one’s ears, of trees shaking their leaves down upon him. The clammy touch of a painted claw was not the same comfort as a pair of soft, gentle hands cupping his cheeks and drawing him close. Painted lips threatening to reveal fangs sharper than razors did not bring forth a smile as happiness sharing as a peeling laughter shared through a family determined to make a change.

It had been a long time since the wires had ceased their writhing and the ship it’s humming, even longer since he’d felt the burning ache of a ruler’s touch. In a way, he may have grown to love her as she loved him. How that had happened, he could not recall - There were memories buried just beneath the surface of his hazed mind, jaw slack and body limp and, for the first time, it was quiet in his mind. Codes and orders and transmissions no longer kept him comfort. Had he the willpower, he may have whimpered at the silence.

It was longer still before he could finally touch the metal flooring of the vicinity. The biowear did not seem to have the motivation to hold him tight, wires slowly, painfully sliding from his flesh as he slumped forward, forward and down and he could see his vision was no longer dark and filled with yellow and- And he hit the floor hard, laying as if a broken doll, breath staggering and blank eyes half lidded. An undetermined amount of time and, even as he was left empty, nothing but a shredded husk of a troll, he tried to access the information logs. There were none. The ship was dead, not even the auxiliary lights were lit. He could not see in the darkness, no matter how accustomed his vision grew.

The Helmsman allowed himself to think, to attempt to remember. Remember what? There was nothing. He was blank, empty. His time aboard the ship came back and, as he slowly recalled every last memory, it all played itself backwards against him. He was back in the helm, the Condesce was screaming, he was screaming. She stopped screaming, he stopped screaming, and order was taken back. It was as if someone had popped in the recording of his life and was rewinding. This went on for another uncountable amount of time. He felt himself screaming his throat un-raw as the man he so cared for un-burned, as the shackles were removed. He felt himself unlaugh as he found himself holding the man in his arms, curling with him, curling with the greenbloods, uncurling and walking backwards for long distances.

Everything stopped after he took the step back into the strong grasp of a subtly scarred pair of hands, a thick collar back around his neck and the man he’d watched un-die and un-live to an extent walked backwards away from him with his greenbloods.

The Helmsman was no longer in darkness. He remembered light, found the ship slowly brightening from it’s dim as his eyes accommodated. Slowly, the yellowblood pushed himself up into a sitting position. Recalling comfort, healing, his wounds began to heal, the temperature evened out. He was lonely.

There was a long time the Psiioniic - He remembered that had been his title, he was the greatest of all, the strongest and most skilled. He deserved that title. - spent wandering the ever changing ship alone. At times, there’d be flashes of memories as he rested, or even as he simply remembered things. Some cases, he’d choke up, reach out to grab the fluttering end of a singed cloak and the entire vision would simply evaporate silently. It was maddening, it was unsettling. He was upset. He was afraid. He had also realised he was dead.

Something was tapping at the metal. The metal somewhere within the ship. He followed the noise, tapping turning to banging and he was running, sprinting and red and blue sparked and crackled in the dry air from his eyes and hands. Psionics tore through walls and obstacles which tried to keep him back, tried to imprison him as he had been. He refused, breathing heavily and all but screaming, muscles burning and eyes burning and chest tight and mind racingandI’m coming, I’m coming, don’t leave me, please, please, I’m coming, coming-

Slamming face-first into the vague memory of what may have been a door, the banging was more of prying. Something was trying to open the metal slab. Trying to save him, or get to him - He didn’t care what it intended to do, what it wanted to do to him. He needed sound, he needed a voice, a warm embrace and-

Crying out quietly, his psionics flaring almost painfully, the rusted hinges finally allowed the door to slide sideways. It kept moving on it’s own and, losing his balance, he fell forward, vision dimming. When had he gotten so weak he couldn’t even hold hims- A pair of strong arms caught him and he swore there was something against his hair, something was heaving against him and he was engulfed in warmth. For a few moments, the Psiioniic was dazed, arms hesitant in the way they slid around the other being’s waist. They felt real. He could hold them, he noticed, grip tightening as he felt his knees give away again. A soft, cracking voice was urging him carefully, knees against the ground as he was eased downwards, still caught in a tight embrace. A bit of repositioning, and he figured out the side of his head was against a shoulder, lips all but brushing a throat, his own arms somehow in his lap.

He wriggled a bit closer, unable to hear what was being said over the buzzing in his skull, feeling a gentle hand brush the hair from his forehead as he tried to gain his bearings. He breathed. Spice. Like cinnamon, almost, cinnamon and pumpkin and the forest, sand and musk and- And he remembered that scent holy _fucking_ \- Both arms went back around the other male’s torso, sound rushing his ears and he could hear his voice it was him it was him he was there he was holding him and he was against his neck and he couldn’t breathe right. He was shaking and wheezing and choking down sobs and holding nearly tight enough to break his friend’s ribs, face smushed almost painfully against the crook of his neck as he pressed himself closer and closer. In return, the grip around him tightened. He could feel again. He was not cold, he was not empty. He was not the rememberances of what had been the greatest psionic user Alternia had ever seen. He was the Psiioniic, he was the Psiioniic and he was holding the Signless and he could not breathe right.

“It’s okay, oh god, ohgod, I’m here, I’m right here, I have you - Shh, shh, it’s okay, breathe, please, I’m not leaving, I’ll never leave,” the words were being softly whispered to him, a hand rubbing his back and a hand massaging his scalp and he quietly whimpered, pressing closer.

It was difficult for him to regain himself. Constantly, he’d switch back to the helm, begin spewing imaginary transmissions and false characters of long useless codes, tense up and stare off. He’d convulse, he’d find himself back in the ship and the Signless would have to rip him down, pull him into his arms and remind it was all over, it was over. He became angry. Angry that the Signless had died, that he was killed. Angry with himself, angry with the Disciple, the Dolorosa. With the highbloods and the lowbloods and the ship and everything and everyone. He had become saddened. Saddened that he could not do a thing, that he could not fully remember on his own. He could not function correctly any longer, still stuck wired up and a living battery. At times, the Psiioniic was entirely detached.

He did find himself once more in time.

Arms wrapped around the Cancer from behind and he let out a laugh, smiling widely over his shoulder as he allowed himself to be tugged backwards into the Psiioniic’s lap. A chuckle was given in return, feather-light brushes of lips trailed along his shoulder, up his neck and to his jaw. The Signless relaxed back into the touch, both of them warm and comfortable and at peace. By then, they had found others - They had found the rest of their family, Darkleer, the Summoner. They stayed close, stayed near and the Psiioniic would not allow his Signless out of his sight for long.

“It’s peaceful here.” “Maybe thith ith the Alternia you dreamed of.”

A quiet chuckle, his arms going back to wrap around the Gemini’s neck enough to tangle in his hair. The position wasn’t comfortable, though, and he settled for wrapping his fingers around the Psiioniic’s forearms when they trapped him from behind.

“I wouldn’t have this any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted from my Tumblr.


End file.
